Robson Finsin - We In Rhodesia, God In Heaven

Everyone is somewhere. Here, there or elsewhere. But we are all somewhere nonetheless, even if that somewhere feels badly like nowhere, and death seems to be lurking behind every bush and rocky outcrop.

'16 48 36 South and 29 42 00 East, 208 kilometres northwest of Salisbury, deep in tobacco farmland, bordering the Zambezi Game reserves, dead bang at the centre of this Rhodesian bush war, we are basically and hopelessly surrounded by 6 million Blacks, when we are what, 300 thousand Whites in the whole of Rhodesia? Alf sighed adjusting his spectacles as he watched the sun set in a golden hue over the African horizon. A tear was in his eye caused maybe by the red savannah dust. Do we really want to be here, my friend? The Blacks are on a racial warpath, they are baying for White blood. I tell you, Kenny, its getting worse. The terrs are getting bolder and more dangerously determined to inflict more harm than good upon us.

But strangely absorbed with his own druggie thoughts, Kenny ignored for a long moment the diatribe of his childhood friend. All Kenny could think about was that he loved this majestic and unforgiving land and moreso, he loved his loyal friend, Alf, and was thankful for his drug peddler, Timoti, but best of all he loved his pot. Nyasaland Gold it was called. Undoubtedly, and by far, it was the best pot in all of the Queens colonies and possibly in all the civilized world.

There was a fascinating story about how Nyasaland gold was cured. As Kenny understood it from Timoti, it was the curing process that set the quality of Nyasaland gold far ahead of Acapulco gold or Mexican green. According to Timoti, legend had it that Nyasaland tribesmen would literary starve a number of goats from their herd, and when they were sure the guts of the selected goats were empty after some days of natural purging, they would then deliberately feed the goats on a diet exclusively made of pot for days or weeks, and then wait. The goats would be left shitting only pot and urinating on the pot poo for the allotted weeks. Afterwards, they would collect the pot droppings from the goat pens, dry them in the ripe looking savannah sun and sale them across the vastness of Southern Africa. Thats how they cured Nyasaland Gold.

As far as Timoti was concerned business was easier during the Federation days. But since the Federation broke up into Nyasaland, Zambia and Southern Rhodesia, the manned borders where making it difficult to move indiscriminatingly with contraband. However, Kenny knew, somehow as is inevitable, drugs always find their way across borders. The government imposed restrictions only made the stuff more valuable and luxurious, and when you lit up that much more delectable.

Kenny looked at his friend and realised what a good friend Alf was all through their childhood years, even moreso now when they were on the cusp of becoming men and of voluntarily joining to fight in the raging bush war, and becoming heroes. These, he thought, are going to be glorious days of war, drugs and sex, that is, if they ever get laid. Kenny found himself praying for the war to end by his hand, but not the drugs and sex which he hoped to enjoy forever.

Kenny lovingly watched as a brooding Alf took a drag from the twist of pot they were sharing.

Did Alf realise they were literary smoking dried goat poo laced with goat piss? Kenny wondered and grinned just from thinking about the things that men do to get to hog heaven.

Nyasaland Gold was the premium shit when it came to pot; hard to come by, damn expensive, potent and a status symbol of the colonial underworld. Its pot balls where more suited to be smoked in the smokers pipe. However, the boys had no option except to smoke the balls crumbled and rolled up in butchers paper like miniature cigars. But they did not mind for they reasoned a tobacco pipe, even if made from ivory, was a grandfathers implement and was not for young chaps like them. What the boys were looking for with eager grubby hands was a narghile which is an oriental tobacco pipe with a long flexible tube connected to a container which holds the water whereby the smoke is cooled by passing through it, but so far they were ever out of luck finding one; what with their living in Capitalist Rhodesia and the implement was easily to be got in Communist Asia. However, when for obvious reasons they asked Timoti to get them one locally, Timoti had told them he would ask one of his BaTonga friends to bring one when he visited his home village that was located along the Zambezi escarpment bordering the Wankie area. Even so, when Timoti described the form of narghile to be provided the boys were not pleased at all as they did not favour the look of the wrinkled woody earth yellow calabash gourd. It was too Black Africa, such that they readily saw it being used as calabash gourd cups at African communal beer drinks and as calabash gourd rattles at pagan African traditional religious dances. So, it was settled, they refused to look like old men and they definitely did not want to look or behave Black. They felt doing either would adversely affect their wow and woo factor with the girls.

Nonetheless, what the boys, especially Kenny, didnt mind being known for, and which they had plenty of, was Nyasaland gold. Kenny proudly had half a year stash hidden inside his mattress and he would boast about it at every opportunity to his peers, moreso if a pretty girl was within earshot especially Agee, his love interest. Yet, he noticed, the illegality of his possession of the dangerous drug made him feel manly and talking about it had made him notorious with the girls, which in turn made him feel macho. But not macho enough for any one of the girls he fancied to become besotted with him to such a degree as to want to get laid. Apparently, there was something he was missing when it came to seducing girls. So far he had learnt two things from the girls he liked: one, they valued their virginity, and two, they were aggressively bitchy. Otherwise, Kenny was beginning to believe he had no luck in love and was never going to get lucky with the ladies, especially with pretty Agee.

Only once did he get close to getting a kiss but Agee had recoiled in disgust at his addled pot and alcohol breath. Quickly, he had then chewed a couple of breath mints and after having breathed his own breath by cupping his hand over his mouth and nose before breathing out through the mouth and then breathing in through the nose successively to make sure it was now smelling fresh. He had then moved in for the kiss with both eyes closed, satisfied that it was reasonably fresh; for one cannot be too sure about these things involving dental odours, or even body odours since ones scent may not stink to oneself because of olfactory sense deadening familiarity, but to strangers one would be rancid to high heaven. Stale pot and alcohol breath fumes are as bad as a stench can get and Agee, a non-smoker and teetotaller, had been unexpectedly blasted with them because Kenny had spent the whole day smoking Nyasaland gold and imbibing on an assortment of stolen wines, spirits and lagers.

Luckily, for Kenny his breath mints had come in handy when it really mattered to recover the situation which to him was a one in a million chance that needed to be seized at all costs: he was to get his first kiss ever and from Agee!